Aramis knocked on the door and waited. He paused a moment, and then relaxed when he heard the shuffling of feet, the lock-latch release, and the door open with a soft squeak. He sighed, looked at Athos, and glanced inside the room. "Your room is bigger than mine," he said, stepped past him and took a seat on the bed.
Dark walnut furniture and fine cream-colored linens hung from the windows and bed, and was a fine display of wealth and comfort. Even the hand woven rug beneath the bed provided comfort for wintry nights and bare feet. Above the fireplace hung a shield, a mace, and a battle-ax. Next to the bed, the lantern flickered next to a short stack of books provided for the room's guest.
They had both utilized the washing stations provided. Their hair was damp, mustaches and beards were-trimmed, necks washed, and they had tossed aside their old blouses for the new ones. However, the bruising along their skin became more evident, as were the dark circles beneath their eyes.
Athos stood with his hand on the door, and his right on his hip. "What do you need?" He rubbed his neck and looked toward Aramis.
Aramis lay back, spread his arms across the soft fabrics, and felt the padding of the bed conform around him. "What do I need?" He said and exhaled slowly. "A room like this at the garrison."
"You'll have to settle for the rooms where your courtesans' reside." Athos rolled his eyes. "Out." He made a motion with his right hand toward the hall.
Aramis sat up, but positioned himself against the bed frame, kicked his feet up, and crossed his ankles. He folded his hands across this stomach and shook his head. "You're as predictable as lard on a hot pan, Athos," he shrugged, and rested his head against the headboard.
Athos shut the door, sat in the chair next to the window, and slipped into his boots. "I'm not in the right mind for company, Aramis." He stood, slipped into his doublet, and then grasped his weapons belt.
"Wait," Aramis said and shifted his feet to the floor. He ran his left hand through his hair, rested his elbows on his knees, and watched Athos buckle his belt. "If we're to depart in the morning — I need to know you'll be rested."
Athos chuckled and shook his head. "The others?"
Aramis cocked his head to his left and raised an eyebrow. "The way Porthos is snoring right now I highly doubt anyone will get enough rest, and d'Artagnan was asleep as soon as his head hit his pillow — to be blunt, I'm not sure how he even made it up the stairs."
"Is he ill?"
"Exhausted — nearly being hanged has," Aramis shrugged, "proven to be quite the ordeal."
Athos nodded, scratched the stubble at his jaw, and looked toward the bed. "What do you need from me?"
Aramis clapped his hands together and folded his fingers. He stood slowly, placed his left hand on his hip, and shifted his feet. "I need to know you're alright?"
Athos rolled his eyes and shook his head. He paused a moment, looked toward the colors of the rug that complimented the bedding and the drapes along the windows. "I'm tired, I'm sore, and I want to return to Paris. Now," he raised his eyebrows, "leave… or I will."
Aramis nodded and looked toward him. He took a deep breath and walked toward the door. "The boy? The one that was killed?" He turned back toward Athos. "Did you see it?"
Athos shook his head. "Get some rest, we have a long ride tomorrow."
Aramis bit on his bottom lip when he realized Athos would not speak on the matter. Aramis grabbed the doorknob, thought about saying something and decided against it, but said, "Sleep well." He opened the door, and left. He paused when the lock was latched and shook his head. He stepped across the hall, opened the door to Porthos' room, and watched him shift on his bed to his left side and stop snoring. Aramis closed the door and walked toward d'Artagnan's room and peered in. The young man was fast asleep, his left arm draped over his chest, and his right spread to his side. Aramis closed the door, and listened to the quietness in the hall, and breathed in the warmth of summer.